GOLDSMITH 
OF   V  NOME 

AND  OTHER  VERS£ 


SAM    C    DUNHAM 

COVER.  DESIGN 
BY   THE  AUTHOR. 


WASHINGTON,  D.  C. 

The  Neale  Publishing  Company 

431  ELEVENTH   STREET 

MCMI 


Copyrighted,  1901. 
By  Samuel  C.  Dunham. 


tact  oft  Ubfas% 


To  the  workers  on  the  Yukon,  who 
through  the  long,  cold  winter  of  nation- 
al neglect  have  been  patiently  working 
while  watching  and  waiting  for  the  ice 
to  melt. 


iii 


PREFACE 


These  verses  were  written  while  the  author  was 
under  assignment  to  Northern  Alaska  in  1897-1898  as 
a  Statistical  Expert  of  the  Department  of  Labor,  and 
in  1899-1900  as  a  Special  Agent  of  the  Twelfth  Cen- 
sus. They  are  the  free  expression  of  some  sentiments 
which  "Official  Courtesy"  quite  properly  excluded 
from  his  formal  reports  to  the  Commissioner  of 
Labor  and  the  Director  of  the  Census.  Most  of  them 
have  appeared  in  various  newspapers — The  New 
York  Sun,  The  San  Francisco  Examiner,  The  Wash- 
ington Post,  The  Illustrated  London  News,  and 
others.  They  are  presented  as  an  appeal  from  the 
tax-burdened  and  unrepresented  people  of  Alaska  to 
lae  Government  at  Washington  for  relief  from  the 
wrongs  which  they  have  oorne  too  patiently  for 
twenty  years. 

In  1900  Alaska  paid  into  the  Treasury  of  the 
United  States  revenues  averaging  $1,207.43  for  every 
day  in  the  year.  For  what? 

SAM    C.    DUNHAM. 

WASHINGTON,  D.  C.,  March  1, 1901. 


CONTENTS 

The  Men  Who  Blaze  the  Trail : 9 

Comrades  of  the  Klondike n 

A  Reply 13 

Why  the  Devil  Never  Visits  the  Yukon 15 

Arctic  Lightning 19 

Just  Back  from  Dawson 20 

Sence  I  Come  Back  from  Dawson 25 

I'm  Goin'  Back  to  Dawson  . . .  t 30 

To  Joaquin  Miller 36 

Alaska  to  Uncle  Sam 37 

Thoughts  Suggested  by  My  Forty-fifth  Birthday 42 

The  Lament  of  the  Old  Sour  Dough 44 

The  Goldsmith  of  Nome 48 

Since  the  Judge  Left  Here  for  Nome 59 

To  the  Yukon  Order  of  Pioneers 64 

A  Greeting  to  the  Swedes 68 

The  Poor  Swede 71 

Starving  Once,  Receiving  Now 72 

Homeward  Bound 74 

To  the  Yukon  Sour  Doughs 77 


vll 


THE  MEN  WHO  BLAZE  THE  TRAIL 

Let  others  sing  of  those  who've  won 

Full  hoard  of  virgin  gold! 
I  strike  the  lyre  for  those  who've  none, 

But  yet  are  strong  and  bold, — 
Who've  blazed  the  trails  through  a  pathless  waste 
/i.nd  on  the  world's  new  chart  have  traced 
The  lines  which  lead  where  the  treasure's  placed, 

And  all  their  secrets  told. 

They  search  the  streams  and  hillsides  rend, 

The  hidden  truth  to  learn; 
They  trudge  where  land  and  sky-line  blend, 

And  gaze  till  eyeballs  burn; 

They  scale  bleak  heights  whence  vast  plains  sweep, 
And  sow  for  those  who  come  to  reap, 
While  wives  and  sweethearts  in  homeland  weep 

And  pray  for  their  return. 


10  THE  MEN  WHO  BIvAZE  THE)  TRAII, 

Afar  in  regions  of  night-gloomed  day 

Their  slender  shadows  leap; 
O'er  snow-crowned  peaks  they  fight  their  way 

To  where  the  Gold-gods  sleep; 
Where  the  congelations  of  the  ages  lie, 
And  athwart  the  dome  of  the  midnight  sky 
Aurora's  moon-drenched  splendors  fly, 

Onward  their  footsteps  creep. 

Out  where  Deathland,  reft  of  bush  or  tree, 

Spreads  like  a  sun-browned  lawn; 
To  the  verge  of  the  rigid,  ice-locked  sea, 

Where  twilight  greets  the   dawn; 
Where  a  sheenless  moon  sails  the  sunlit  night, 
Where  inert  and  dim  bides  the  Mystic  Light, 
And  the  white  swan  ends  his  vernal  flight, 
They  still  are  pressing  on. 

So  while  others  sing  of  the  chosen  few 

Who  o'er  the  Fates  prevail, 
I  will  sing  of  the  many,  staunch  and  true, 

Whose  brave  hearts  never  quail, — 
Who  with  dauntless  spirit  of  pioneers 
A  state  are  building  for  the  coming  years, 
Their  sole  reward  their  loved  ones'  tears, — 

The  men  who  blaze  the  trail! 

CIRCLE  CITY,  Jan.  1, 1898. 


COMRADES  OF  THE  KLONDIKE 

I 

Have  you,  too,  banged  at  the  Chilkoot, 
That  storm-locked  gate  to  the  golden  door? 
Those  thunder-built  steeps  have  words  built  to  suit, 
And  whether  you  prayed  or  whether  you  swore, 
'Twere  one,  where  it  seemed  that  an  oath  were  a 

prayer- 
Seemed  that  God  couldn't  care, 
Seemed  that  God  wasn't  there! 

II 

Have  you,  too,  climbed  to  the  Klondike? 

Hast  talked  as  a  friend  to  the  five-horned  stars? 

With  muckluc  shoon  and  with  talspike 

Hast  bared  gray  head  to  the  golden  bars, 

Those  heaven-built  bars  where  Morning  is  born? 

Hast  drunk  with  Maiden   Morn 

Prom  Klondike's  golden  horn? 


11 


12  COMRADES  OF  THE  KLONDIKE 

III 

Hast   read,   low-voiced,   by  the   Korthlights 

Such  sermons  as  never  men  say? 

Hast  sat  and  sat  with  the  Midnights, 

That  sit  and  that  sit  all  day? 

Hast  heard  the  iceberg's  boom  on  boom? 

Hast  heard  the  silence,  the  room? 

The  glory  of  God,  the  gloom? 

IV 

Then  come  to  my  sunland,  my  soldier, — 
Aye,  come  to  my  heart,  and  to  stay! 
For  better  crusader  or  bolder 
Bared  never  his  breast  to  the  fray, 
And  whether  you  prayed  or  you  cursed, 
You  dared  the  best — and  the  worst — 
That  ever  brave  man  durst. 

JOAQUIN  MILLER. 

CIRCLE  CITY,  Oct.  19, 1897. 


A   REPLY 

I 

I,  too,  have  banged  at  the  Chilkoot; 

I  have  scaled  her  storm-torn  height 

And  slid  down  her  trail  with  dizzy  shoot 

That  produced  a  Northern  Light; 

And  I  uttered  a  curse-laden  prayer, — 

Of  course  God  didn't  care, 

For  only  the  Devil  was  there. 

II 

I,  too,  have  climbed  to  the  Klondike, 

Through  bog  and  muck  and  roots, 

Till  my  legs  were  as  stiff  as  thy  talspike 

And  the  water  filled  both  of  my  boots; 

Have  drunk  from  golden  horn 

With  maidens,  night  to  morn, — 

I  acknowledge  the  corn. 


14  A    REPI.Y 


HI 

Have  heard,  loud-voiced,  by  the  Northlights 

Such  oaths  as  only  men  say; 

Have  lain  awake  through  the  midnights 

And  fought  mosquitoes  all  day; 

Cursed   Klondike's — not   the   iceberg's — boom, 

And  paid  an  ounce  for  a  room, 

Which  filled  my  soul  with  gloom. 

IV 

My  friend,  I'll  come  to  thy  sunland 

As  soon  as  this  long  winter's  o'er, 

And  I'll  drink  to  thy  health  in  the  one  land 

Whither  thy  thoughts  ever  soar; 

And  though  this  drought  be  the  worst 

That  ever  humanity  cursed, 

At  last  we'll  banish  our  thirst. 

CIRCLE  CITY,  Oct.  21,  1897. 


WHY  THE  DEVIL  NEVER  VISITS  THE  YUKON 

The  Devil  one  day,  so  the  sagas  say, 

Taking  his  Christmas  vacation, 
On  outstretched  pinions  sailed  this  way, 

In  search  of  souls  for  damnation. 

With  malice  prepense,  the  cold  was  intense 

(It  always  is  in  this  section), 
A.nd  our  unclad  friend,  in  his  innocence, 
Came  without  proper  protection. 

(There  are  others,  I'm  told,  who,  equally  bold, 
Come  here  from  a  warmer  climate, 

To  find  that  they're  a  soft  snap  for  the  cold, 
Just  like  hell's  thin-blooded  primate). 

In  the  pathless  wood  a  lone  wigwam  stood, 
Not  far  from  the  ice-bound  river, 

And  in  hope  of  finding  there  warmth  and  food, 
Nick  shook  the  flap  with  a  shiver. 


15 


16          WHY   THE  DEVII,  NEVER  VISITS  THE  YUKON 

No  strangers  to  sin,  they  quick  took  him  in, 
And  he  stood  with  back  to  the  fire 

While  the  host  prepared  a  big  moose-skin 
And  "night-cap"  on  which  to  retire. 

He  cursed  the  weather,  and  asked  them  whether 
There  was  any  hope  for  a  change; 

He  switched  his  tail  like  a  thong  of  leather 
And  said  that  its  fork  felt  strange. 

A  maiden  half-fair,  with  raven-black  hair 
And  a  beautiful  bear-tooth  brooch, 

Handed  our  friend,  without  offering  a  chair, 
A  cup  of  the  stuff  they  call  "hootch." 

Now  I  wasn't  there,  but  the  sagas  declare 

The  draught  he  quaffed  was  a  rank  one, — 

A  fact  to  which  it  is  needless  to  swear 
Before  a  man  who  has  drank  one. 

Our  cold  friend  from  hell  gave  a  fiendish  yell, 
And  soon  ail  his  limbs'  were  jerkin', 

And  flat  on  the  ground  convulsive  he  fell, 
For  the  hootch  had  got  its  work  in. 


WHY  THE  DEVII,  NEVER  VISITS  THE  YUKON 

He  opened  his  eyes,  now  looking  crosswise, 
And  asked  who  it  was  that  slugged  him, 

And  opened  them  wider,  in  wild  surprise, 

When  he  learned  they  had  only  drugged  him. 

When  able  to  walk  and  freely  to  talk, 

He  asked  them  what  was  in  it, 
And  the  chief  concoctor,  without  a  balk, 

Told  him  in  less  than  a  minute: 

"With  most  cunning  skill  we  concoct  the  swill 

Of  sugar,  sour  dough  and  berries, 
And  sell  it  to  white  men  by  quart  or  gill 

In  spite  of  the  missionaries. 

"But  while  it  is  bad,  I  am  very  glad 
To  say  that  high-wines  are  worse; 

The  white  chiefs  import  them,  which  makes  us  sad 
And  puts  a  big  kink  in  our  purse. 

"That  unrectified  sin  the  whites  smuggle  in 
Will  kill  if  you  don't  dilute  it,— 

A  thing  which  they  do,  large  profits  to  win; 
No  one  will  dare  to  dispute  it." 


l8          WHY  THE  DEVII,  NEVER  VISITS  THE  YUKON 

As  pale  as  grim  Death  and  with  quickened  breath, 
Old  Nick  gasped,  "I'll  hie  me  southward, 

And  prone  on  the  sulphurous  marge  of  Lethe, 
I'll  dash  its  sweet  waters  mouthward. 

"That  infernal  stuff  is  quite  strong  enough 

To  run  a  small  hell  without  me; 
I  firmly  believe  I'll  carry  its  rough 

Effects  for  a  year  about  me." 

He  then  climbed  the  sky,  and  with  curdling  cry 
Soared  off  through  the  azure,  sinwards, 

In  the  well-stocked  sideboards  of  hell  to  try 
To  find  something  to  soothe  his  inwards. 

And  up  to  this  day,  so  the  sagas  say, 
The  Devil  flies  shy  of  this  region, 

Contented,  aye!  glad,  to  resign  his  sway 
To  Hootch  and  his  High-wine  Legion. 

CIRCI/E  CITY,  Jan.  8, 1898. 


ARCTIC  LIGHTNING 

Far  out  where  the  sullen  darkness 

Palls  the  silent,  ice-chained  sea, 
Spring,  low-arched,  the  fragile  Northlighta 

O'er  the  realm  of  mystery; 
From   their   haunts   beneath   the   crescent, 

Where  the  murky  shadows  lie, 
Come  Aurora's  pale  magicians, 

With  their  festoons  for  the  sky, 
And  while  the  Color  Sergeant  musters 

His  Immortal  Seven 
To  hang  their  banners  from  the  dome 

And  drape  the  walls  of  heaven, 
Straight  he  hurls  his  shafts  of  silver 

High  up  in  the  star-gemmed  blue, 
Where  the  wraiths  of  light,  soft-tinted 

And  of  swiftly-changing  hue, 
Through  the  long  and  ghostly  vigils 

Of  the  voiceless  Arctic  night 
Weirdly  gleam  and  faintly  whisper 

As  they  tremble  out  of  sight. 
CIRCLE  CITY,  Feb.  22,  1898. 

19 


JUST  BACK  FROM  DAVVSON 

I've  just  got  back  from  Dawson,  where  the  Arctic 

rainbow  ends, 
An'   the   swiftly-rushin'   Klondike   with  the  mighty 

Yukon  blends; 
Where  the  sun  on  Christmas  mornin'  in  the  act  of 

risin'  sets, 
So  that  just  a  minit's  sunshine  is  all  that  region 

gets; 

An'  the  rimplin'  midnight  glories  through  the  moon- 
tranced  heavens  fly, 
While  the  guileless  sour-dough   miners   set  around 

the  stove  and  lie 
'Bout  the  good  old  times  at  Circle,  'fore  the  smooth 

promoters  came 
An'   set  the   country  boomin'   in   a  way  that  Is   a 

shame. 


20 


JUST  BACK  FROM  DAWSON  21 

I've  just  got  back  from  Dawson,  where  the  large  mos- 
quitoes sing, 

An'  soon  as  they  forsake  the  camp,  their  small  suc- 
cessors sting; 

Where  'long  about  the  last  of  June  the  sun  again 
surprises 

The  new-arrived  inhabitants,  an'  while  it's  settin' 
rises; 

Where  the  price  of  pay-streak  bacon  is  two  dollars 
for  a  pound, 

An'  to  treat  your  friends  at  Spencer's  costs  an  ounce 
or  two  a  round, 

An'  they  sell  Seattle  cider,  in  the  guise  of  dry  cham- 
pagne, 

Which  institoots  a  lingerin'  drunk  that's  very  far 
from  plain. 

I've  just  returned  from  Dawson,  where  the  charge 

for  anteek  eggs 
Makes  considerable  difference  in  length  of  buyers' 

legs; 
Where  our  helpful  friends  in  Washington,  misled  by 

bad  advice, 
Concluded  they  could  operate  steam  enjines  on  tha 

ice, 
An'  are  tryin'  now  the  reindeer,  a-feedin'  them  on 

moss, 
But  wherever  they've  been  tried  so  far  there's  been 

a  heavy  lose, 


22  JUST  BACK  FROM  DAWSON 

While  all  the  old  trail-breakers  to  their  pet  traditions 

cling 
An'  still  maintain  with  vehemence — "the  dog's  the 

proper  thing." 

I've  just  reached  here  from  Dawson,  where   I   seen 

Frank  Slavin  spar, 

An'  also  seen  his  victim  a-revivin'  at  the  bar 
While  Frank  shook  hands  with  all  his  friends  an' 

loudly  did  declare 
That  he  could  lick  Fitzsimmons,  too,  if  he  was  only 

there; 

An'  seen  Oklahoma  Wilson  attempt  to  instigate 
A  coop  de  Colt,  but  ere  his  gun  became  articulate 
They  yanked  him  to  the  barracks  in  a  way  he  won't 

forget, 
An'  to  cultivate  his  harmlessness  they're  boardin' 

him  there  yet. 

I've  just  come  out  from  Dawson,  where  everybody's 

health 
Is  bein'  undermined  an'  ruined  in  a  wild-eyed  rush 

for  wealth, 

An'  a  score  or  so  of  schemers,  on  evil  projects  bent, 
Are  robbin'  the  community  to  a  terrible  extent; 
Where  the  men  who  dig  the  treasure  are  strong  an* 

brave  an'  bold, 


JUST  BACK  FROM  DAWSON  23 

Wrenchin'   from  the  glacier's  bowels  stockin's  full 

of  yellow  gold, 
While  the  transportation  pirates  slyly  syndicate  their 

gall 
With  the  criminal  intention  of  absorbin'  of  it  all. 

I've  just  escaped  from  Dawson,  where  the  ice  grows 

ten  feet  thick, 
An'  doods  who  like  their  baths  served  cold  don't  take 

'em  in  a  crick; 
Where  no  one,  be  he  rich  or  poor,  is  ever  dubbed  a 

"hero" 
Till  he  has  done  his  hundred  miles  at  60  less  than 

zero; 
Where  men  chop  water  out  in  chunks  an'  pile  it  on 

the  banks, 
An*  make  their  hot-air  heaters  out  of  empty  coal-oil 

tanks, 

An'  read  back-number  papers  by  the  unobtrusive  rays 
Of  tallow-dips  an'  davy  lamps — dim  lights  of  other 

days. 

I've   just   emerged    from    Dawson,    a    bad    financial 

wreck, 
For  instead  of  gettin'  dust  galore,  I  got  it  in  the 

neck, 
Where  Adam   got   the   apple   in   tnat   episode   with 

Eve, 


24  JUST  BACK  PROM  DAWSOW 

Which  led  to  woe  an'  stern  decree  that  they  would 

have  to  leave, 
Like  thirty  thousand  other  jays,  by  golden  visions 

lured, 
Who  climbed  the  trails,  through  hardships  to  which 

they  weren't  inured, 
To  find  that  them  Dominion    knaves,    by    dastardly 

deceits, 
Had  concessioned  everything  in  sight  an'  even  leased 

the  streets. 

WASHINGTON,  U.  C.,  Nov.  25, 1898. 


SENCE  I  COME  BACK  FROM  DAW80N 

Sence  I  come  back  from  Dawson  to  these  old  famil- 
iar scenes, 

I've  read  the  yaller  journals  an'  the  10-cent  maga- 
zines, 

An'  to  sort  o'  classify  events  an'  find  out  what  oc- 
curred 

While  I  was  hibernatin'  where  the  light  of  God  was 
blurred, 

I've  been  searchin'  through  the  columns  of  the  daily 
picture-press, 

To  see  if  I  could  ascertain,  or  formulate  a  guess, 

Why  the  scribblers  who  last  autumn  so  artistically 
lied 

'Bout  the  riches  of  the  Klondike  concluded  to  sub- 
side. 


25 


26  SENCE  I  COME  BACK  FROM  DAWSON 


Then  every  trail  was  occupied  by  journalistic  beats 
Who  represented  (with  slim  cards)  all  saffron-tinted 

sheets 
From  Seattle  to  Savannah  an'  from  Bangor  to  Du- 

luth, 
But  nary  one.  of  them  was  there  to  represent  the 

truth. 
They  stumbled  up  the  Chilkoot  an'  they  loafed  along 

the  lakes, 
An'  when  not  a-photographin'  things  or  writin'  up 

their  fakes, 
Imbibed  raw  rum  from  Hudson  Bay,  an'  dressed  in 

goffin'  suits, 
Stood  'round  an'  told  old-timers  'bout  the  shortest 

Klondike  roots. 

Now  I've  gathered  from  my  readin'  that  the  reason 

why  they  quit 
Writin'  lies  about  the  Klondike  was,  as  lawyers  say, 

to-wit: 
Havin'  placed  us  in  cold  storage  an'  done  all  the 

harm  they  could, 
They  felt  a  awful  .  cravin'  for  a  brand  of  booze  that's 

good, 

An'  left  at  once  to  sponge  it,  an'  unable  to  refrain 
From  causin'  people  trouble,  they  arranged  a  war 

with  Spain, 


SENCE  I  COME  BACK  FROM  DAWSON  27 

An'  to  properly  conduct  the  same*  rushed  bravely  to 

the  front 
An'  led  all  the  gallant  charges  an'  bore  the  battle's 

brunt. 

Now,  while  us  Klondike  refugees  most  greevusly  de- 
plore 

The  mournful  fact  so  few  of  them  passed  to  the  other 
shore, 

Our  grief  is  curtailed  by  the  thought  which  punctu- 
ates our  sobs, 

That  some  of  them  who  were  not  killed  have  lately 
lost  their  jobs. 

An'  sence  my  feelin's  is  aroused,  some  words  I've  got 
to  say 

About  the  highly  lucrative  an'  lowly  sinful  way 

The  experts  an'  perfessers  told  the  things  they  didn't 
know 

(A-settin'  in  warm  rooms  at  home)  about  the  realm 
of  snow.  *  ' 

Of  all  their  stories  I  have  read,  the  worst  about  that 
far  land 

Was  written  by  a  man  whose  brow  has  long  worn 
Fiction's  garland, 

Who  in  the  "Klondike  Number"  of  a  well-known  mag- 
azine 

Told  of  the  sylvan  beauties  of  some  trails  he'd  never 
seen, 


28  SENCE  i  COME  BACK  FROM  DAWSON 

With  purlin'   broods   an'   wild   delights   an'   picnics 

everywhere 
(Things  that  exist  in  poets'  dreams,  but  don't  exist 

up  there) ; 
Then  followed  in  the  steps  of  them  he'd  so  cruelly 

misled, 
To  write  about  the  scenery  an'  enumerate  the  dead. 

Perhaps  't  will  se*em  that  I've  assumed  a  gay  an'  flip- 
pant air, 

But  while  I'm  settin'  here  to-night  a  ghost  stands  by 
my  chair. 

Again  I  see  a  famished  form  stretched  'neath  a  som- 
bre sky; 

Again  I  fold  the  shriveled  hands  an'  close  the  death- 
glazed  eye; 

I  see  the  horrors  Falsehood  wrought,  an'  hear  again 
the  wail 

Of  its  victim    as  he  perished  on  a  panoramic  trail, 

Where  his  bleached  an'  badly-scattered  bones  is  all 
that's  left  to  tell 

How  he  battled  with  the  terrors  of  a  thousand  miles 
of  hell. 

Now,  as  I  ain't  no  statesman,  I   can't  figger  what 

we'll  gain 
Through  this  unexpected  legacy  of  trouble  from  old 

Spain; 


SENCK  I   COME  BACK  FROM  DAWSON  29 

But  as  a  unkissed  hero  from  the  barren  Yukon  Flats, 
I  modestly  petition  our  distinguished  diplomats: 
In  your  God-directed  efforts  to  emancipate  mankind, 
Don't  forget  your  helpless  brothers  in  your  Arctic 

wilds  confined, 
But  in  your  swoop  for  liberty,  to  right  an'  justice 

true, 
Extend  a  helpin'  hand  to  them, — annex  Alaska,  too. 

WASHINGTON,  D.  C.,  Jan.  1, 1899. 


I'M  GOIN'  BACK  TO  DAWSON 

I'm  goin'  back  to  Dawson,  an'  suppose  I  must  ex- 
plain 

How  I  generated  nerve  enough  to  hit  that  trail  again. 

I've  tramped  this  land  from  east  to  west  an'  tried  it 
north  an'  south, 

An'  found  the  people  short  on  heart  but  very  long  on 
mouth; 

I've  wandered  through  the  byways  an'  I've  mingled 
with  the  crowds, 

An'  felt  a  dam  sight  lonesomer  than  when  above  the 
cloud? 

I  stood  alone  'mid  ghostly  isles  that  pierced  a  spec- 
tral sea 

An'  cried  in  vain  to  far-off  stars  that  couldn't  answer 
me. 


I'M   COIN'    BACK  TO  DAWSON  3! 


I  met  a  great  philanthropist,  whose  wealth  they  say 

was  ground 
From  the  labor  of  a  thousand  serfs, — whose  fame's 

a-spreadin'  round 

Because  he  built  a  edifice  an'  filled  it  full  of  books 
To  learn  the  poor  submission  to  incorporated  crooks, 
An'  seen  him  stop  a  barefoot  kid  with  papers  in  the 

street  . 

An'  hand  to  him  a  nickel  for  a  flamin'  one-cent  sheet, 
Then  sneak  behind  him  for  a  block,  a-keepin'  him  in 

range, 
To  nab  the  limpin'  little  cuss  if  he  tried  to  swipe  th«3 

change. 

An*  I  rambled  through  the  alleys  of  a  big  depart- 
ment store, 

Admirin'  of  the  handsome  gents  which  walk  along 
the  floor 

A-tellin'  ladies  where  to  go  to  get  the  cheapest 
things, — 

Where  "Cash!"  appears  to  be  the  song  that  every- 
body sings, 

An'  somethin'  like  five  hundred  girls  that  ought  to 
be  at  school 

Lean  wearily  against  the  shelves  because  there's  nary 
a  stool, — 

An*  I'm  told  the  chap  who  owns  the  claim  has  the 
immortal  nerve 

To  pay  but  half  a  case  a  day  to  them  that  stand  an' 
serve. 


32  I'M  COIN'  BACK  TO  DAWSON 

I'm  also  told  that  this  here  man  exists  In  princely 

style 
In  marble  halls  set  on  a  hill  that  slopes  away  a 

mile, 
An'  to  stupefy  his  conscience  he's  donated  from  Ma 

wad 
Some  money  to  the  heathens  an'  has  built  a  house 

for  God; 
An'  drowsin'  in  his  temple    on    a    recent  Sabbath 

morn, 

I  seen  again  the  faces  of  them  girls  so  pale  an'  lorn, 
An'  wondered  if  the  cuss  was  bankin'  on  the  heath- 
ens he  had  saved 
For  a  discount  up  in  heaven  'gainst  the  white  folks 

he'd  enslaved. 

Then  I  roused  up  from  my  dreamin'  that  the  organ 
had  produced 

An'  thought  about  the  Yukon  boys  I've  so  shame- 
fully traduced, 

An'  seen  again  quite  clearly,  in  no  music-painted 
dream, 

Two  snow-blind  men  a-stumblin'  'hind  a  limpin' 
Siwash  team, — 

Old  Cooley  an'  his  pardner  Jo,  who  never  go  to 
church, 

A-strugglin'  back  to  Circle  from  their  long  trip  out 
on  Birch 


I'M  GOIN'  BACK  TO  DAWSON  33 

To  feed  the  starvin'  Tananas, — a  service  so  high- 
priced 

They'll  not  collect  their  wages  till  they  hand  their 
time  to  Christ. 

In  trampin'  through  this  high-toned  land  I'm  pain- 
fully surprised 

To  learn  that  butchers  so  refined  an'  highly  civilized 

That  they'd  disdain  to  occupy  a  mansion  built  of 
logs 

Provide  our  soldiers  beef  an'  things  I  wouldn't  feed 
my  dogs; 

Which  makes  me  want  to  get  back  where  the  canned 
goods  ain't  so  bad 

An'  the  girls  you  meet  on  every  hand  ain't  pale- 
faced,  thin,  an'  sad, — 

Where  the  milk  of  human  kindness  ain't  so  rigidly 
congealed 

That  we'd  let  'em  wander  from  the  trail  because 
they  wasn't  heeled. 

I  want  to  hear  the  soothin'  tones  of  Bates's  old 
guitar 

As  he  sings  about  "The  Fisher  Maiden"  at  "The  Po- 
lar Star," 

An'  see  Brick  Wheaton  rassle  with  his  yaller  mando- 
lin 

As  he  chants  the  charms  of  Injun  hootch  an'  other 
kinds  of  sin; 


34  I'M  GOIN'  BACK  TO  DAWSON 

I  want  to  hear  them  songs  once  more  an'  want  to 

see  my  friends 
Where  the  swiftly-rushin'  Klondike  y/ith  the  mighty 

Yukon  blends, 
An*  they  size  a  feller-sinner  by  his  "heart  an'  what 

he  knows 
An'  never  ask  his  Southern  name  or  criticise  his 

clo's. 

I  want  to  see  Aurora — not  the  one  that  greets  the 

day, 
But  her  weak  an'  pallid  namesake — try  to  drive  the 

night  away, 
An'  watch  her  throw  her  shafts  of  silver  far  up  in 

the  sky, 
While    her    color-bearers    tint    'em    with    an    ever- 

changin'  dye, 

An'  from  the  walls  of  heaven  all  their  fragile  ban- 
ners swing 
Till  the  air's  alive  with  whispers  like  the  swishin'  of 

a  wing, 
An'  from  the  zenith  flash  great  lights  across  the  in- 

.«.-  terspace 

Till  you^feel  you're  in  God's  presence  an'  can  almost 

see  His  face. 

So  I'm  goin'  back  to  Dawson,  an'  I'll  float  along  that 

way 
As  the  ice  moves  down  the  river,  'long  about  the  last 

of  May, 


I'M   GOIN'   BACK  TO  DAWSON  .         35 

When  birds  an'  flowers  are  flirtin'  an'  the  white 
clouds  sail  the  blue — 

An*  the  energetic  insecks  get  in  their  fine  work  too. 

I  know  now  what  I  didn't  when  I  went  up  there  be- 
fore, 

That  it  is  soshul  suicide  to  linger  round  here  poor, 

For  though  the  Arctic  winters  there  are  long  an* 
dark  an*  cold, 

They're  warmer  than  my  welcome  when  they  found  I 
brought  no  gold. 

WASHINGTON,  D.  CM  Feb.  22,1899. 


TO  JOAQUIN  MILLER 

Here  at  the  Gate  of  the  Arctic, 

Facing  the  silent  land, 
Backward  I  reach  through  the  distance 

And  grasp  your  heart-hot  hand. 
If  our  earthly  trails  ne'er  cross  again, 

I'll  meet  you  farther  west, 
On  the  sunset  side  of  the  Sundown  Sea, 

Where  trail-worn  poets  rest. 

CHILKOOT  PASS,  June  19,  1899. 


ALASKA  TO  UNCLE  8AM 

Sitting   on  my  greatest  glacier, 

With  my  feet  in  Bering  Sea, 
I  am  thinking,  cold  and  lonely, 

Of  the  way  you've  treated  me. 
Three-and-thirty  years  of  silence! 

Through  ten  thousand  sleepless  nights 
I've  been  praying  for  your  coming — 

For  the  dawn  of  civil  rights. 

When  you  took  me,  young  and  trusting, 

From  the  growling  Russian  bear, 
Loud  you  swore  before  the  nations 

I  should  have  the  Eagle's  care. 
Never  yet  has  wing  of  eagle 

Cast  a  shadow  on  my  peaks, 
But  I've  watched  the  flight  of  buzzards 

And  I've  felt  their  busy  beaks. 


38  ALASKA  TO  UNCLE  SAM 

Your  imported  cross-roads  statesmen 

(What  a  motley,  sordid  train!) 
Come  with  laws  conceived  in  closets, — 

Made  for  loot  and  private  gain! 
These  the  best  that  you  can  furnish? 

Then  God  help  the  heathen  folk 
You  have  rescued  from  the  burden 

Of  the  rotting  Spanish  yoke! 

I'm  a  full-grown,  proud-souled  woman, 

And  I'm  getting  tired  and  sick — 
Wearing  all  the  cast-off  garments 

Of  your  body  politic. 
If  you'll  give  me  your  permission, 

I  will  make  some  wholesome  laws 
That  will  suit  my  hard  conditions 

And  promote  your  country's  cause. 

By  the  latest  mail  you  sent  me 

(Nearly  all  your  mails  are  late!), 
Comes  the  news  that  you've  gone  roving 

In  your  proud  old  Ship  of  State, — 
Dreaming  with  a  sunburnt  siren 

By  the  sultry  southern  seas, 
Where  the  songs  of  your  enchantress 

Swoon  upon  the  scented  breeze. 


ALASKA  TO   UNCLE  SAM  39 

You  are  blind  with  lust  of  conquest 

And  desire  for  foreign  trade, 
Or  you'd  see  the  half-drawn  dagger, 

With  its  brightly-burnished  blade, 
Sticking  in  the  loosened  girdle 

Of  the  black  brute  by  your  side — 
If  you  treat  her  as  I'm  treated 

She  will  stick  it  through  your  hide. 

Curb  your  taste  for  sun-killed  countries, 

Where  the  natives  loaf  and  shirk; 
Come  to  richer  northern  regions, 

Where  the  people  think  and  work. 
If  you  want  a  part  of  Asia 

When  the  Chinamen  are  killed, 
Run  a  railroad  up  to  Bering — 

I  will  show  you  where  to  build. 

Come  next  spring  and  count  my  treasures, 

And  don't  stop  at  Glacier  Bay, 
Like  the  many  high  commissions 

You  have  started  up  this  way. 
You  will  see  my  wooded  mountains, 

With  their  citadels  of  snow 
Gleaming  in  the  purple  distance 

Through  the  pearl-hued  alpen-glow. 


40  ALASKA  TO   UNCI^E  SAM 

Standing  on  my  flower-strewn  hillsides, 

Where  my  mighty  rivers  meet, 
Gazing  o'er  my  verdant  valleys, 

Spreading  seaward  from  your  feet, 
You  will  see  the  sunlit  splendors 

Of  my  moonless  midnight  skies, 
Gilded  with  the  light  supernal 

Shining  straight  from  Paradise. 

If  you  stay  till  Hoary  Winter 

Has  entombed  the  silent  land, 
You  will  read  celestial  sermons, 

Written  by  the  Master's  hand 
On  the  azure  walls  of  heaven, 

Where  Aurora's  tinted  light 
Weirdly  flits  like  summer  lightning 

All  the  ghostly  Arctic  night. 

When  you  come  I'll  show  you  wonders 

That  will  cause  you  great  surprise, 
And  if  gold  is  what  you're  seeking 

You  will  open  wide  your  eyes. 
Drive  away  your  Wall  street  schemers, 

With  their  coupons  and  their  nerve,- 
Then  while  you  extend  your  commerce 

I'll  expand  your  gold  reserve. 


ALASKA  TO   UNCI,E  SAM  41 

You  will  find  a  magic  city 

On  the  shore  of  Bering  Strait 
Which  shall  be  for  you  a  station 

To  unload  your  Arctic  freight, 
Where  the  gold  of  Humboldt's  vision 

Has  for  countless  ages  lain, 
Waiting  for  the  hand  of  labor 

And  the  Saxon's  tireless  brain. 

You  shall  have  a  cool  vacation, 

Hunting  for  the  great  white  bear, 
And  you'll  soon  forget  Manila 

And  the  trouble  you've  had  there; 
For  as  in  the  morn  of  nations 

Every  highway  led  to  Rome, 
You  and  all  your  restless  rivals 

Will  be  sailing  straight  to  Nome. 

You  will  wake  a  sleeping  empire, 

Stretching  southward  from  the  Pole 
To  the  headlands  where  the  waters 

Of  your  western  ocean  roll. 
Then  will  rise  a  mighty  people 

From  the  travail  of  the  years, 
Whom  with  pride  you'll  call  your  children, — 

Offspring  of  my  pioneers. 

FORT  YUKON,  Sept.  6,  1899. 


THOUGHTS   SUGGESTED    BY  MY  FORTY-FIFTH 
BIRTHDAY 


When  a  man  gets  along  to  about  forty-two, 
He's  apt  to  sit  down  and  let  pass  in  review 
The  scenes  of  his  past,  and  he's  likely  to  make 
An  effort  to  spot  the  fatal  mistake 
Which  changed  the  whole  course  of  human  events 

With  regard  to  his  hopes  and  honest  intents. 

« 

One  makes  his  mistake  in  the  morning  of  life, 
In  failing  to  choose  or  in  choosing  a  wife; 
Another  takes  a  drink  and  the  evil  is  done, 
And  Dishonor  completes  what  the  Devil  begun, 
While  many  evade  Life's  pitfalls  and  snares 
Till  Old  Time  has  garnered  or  silvered  their  hairs. 

But  mine  was  the  earliest  failure  on  earth, 
For  I  made  my  mistake  at  the  hour  of  birth 
By  making  my  debut,  an  undressed  kid, 
The  same  day  of  the  month  that  Washington  did, 
And  I  look  back  now  and  see  quite  plain 
Why  all  of  my  efforts  have  been  in  vain. 


42 


THOUGHTS  SUGGESTED  BY  MY  FORTY-FIFTH  BIRTHDAY    43 

You've  heard  about  George  and  his  cute  little  ax 

And  his  weakness  for  sticking  too  close  to  the  facts. 

My  very  first  effort  to  emulate  him 

Gave  a  shock  to  my  system  that  made  my  head  swim, 

For  when  I  confessed  to  my  volatile  dad 

I  got  the  worst  licking  I  ever  have  had. 

In  spite  of  that  set-back  I've  kept  up  the  fight 
'Gainst   Error   and   Falsehood,    for   Truth   and   the 

Right; 

But  always  through  life  I've  felt  the  restraint 
Of  the  gift  handed  down  by  my  Natal-day  Saint, 
And  I'm  forced  to  admit  that  Virtue's  reward 
Is  the  only  return  I  can  thus  far  record. 

No  matter  what  pathway  I've  chosen  in  life, 

In  city  or  country  or  political  strife, 

On  the  crest  of  a  mountain  or  the  marge  of  a  lake, 

There  stood  close  beside  me  my  fatal  mistake, 

And  wherever  my  lofty  ambition  has  led 

I've  seen  my  hopes  wither,  my  projects  drop  dead. 

But  here  in  the  Arctic,  where  Falsehood  is  tough, 
The  pathway  of  Truth  is  peculiarly  rough, 
And  as  I  gaze  out  o'er  the  white  frozen  sea 
I  feel  all  too  keenly  it's  no  place  for  me, 
For  no  one  who  sticks  to  George  W.'s  creed 
Can  ever  expect  in  this  land  to  succeed. 

ST.  MICHAEL,  Feb.  22,  1900. 


THE  LAMENT  OF  THE  OLD  SOUR  DOUGH 


I've  trudged  and  I've  starved  and  I've  frozen 

All  over  this  white  barren  land, — 
Where  the  sea  stretches  straight,  white  and  silent, 

Where  the  timberless  white  mountains  stand, — 
From  the  white  peaks  that  gleam  in  the  moonlight, 

Like  a  garment  that  graces  a  soul, 
To  the  last  white  sweep  of  the  prairies, 

Where  the  black  shadows  brood  round  the  Pole. 

(Now,  pray  don't  presume  from  this  prelude 

That  a  flame  of  poetical  fire 
Is  to  burst  from  my  brain  like  a  beacon, 

For  I've  only  been  tuning  my  lyre 
To  the  low,  sad  voice  of  a  singer 

Who's  inspired  to  sing  you  some  facts 
About  the  improvements  in  staking 

And  the  men  who  mine  with  an  ax.) 


-11 


THE;  LAMENT  OF  THE;  OI,D  SOUR  DOUGH         45 


I've  panned  from  Peru  to  Point  Barrow, 

But  I  never  located  a  claim 
Till  I'd  fully  persuaded  my  conscience 

That  pay  dirt  pervaded  the  same; 
And  this  is  the  source  of  my  sorrow, 

As  you  will  be  forced. to  agree 
When  you  learn  how  relentless  Misfortune 

Has  dumped  all  her  tailings  on  me. 

I  worked  with  my  pardner  all  summer, 

Cross-cutting  a  cussed  cold  creek, 
Which  we  never  once  thought  of  locating 

Unless  we  located  the  streak; 
And  when  at  the  close  of  the  season 

We  discovered  the  creek  was  a  fake 
We  also  discovered  the  region 

Had  nothing  left  in  it  to  stake. 

We  traversed  the  toe-twisting  tundra, 

Where  reindeer  root  round  for  their  feed, 
And  the  hungry  Laplanders  who  herd  them 

Devour  them  before  they  can  breed. 
Here  it  seemed  that  good  claims  might  be  plenty, 

And  we  thought  we  would  stake  one — perhaps; 
But  we  found  to  our  grief  that  the  gulches 

Were  staked  in  the  name  of  the  Lapps. 


46  THE  LAMENT  OF  THE    OI,D    SOUR   DOUGH 


A  .hundred  long  leagues  to  the  northward, 

O'er  the  untrodden,  sun-burnished  snow, 
We  struggled,  half  blind  and  half  famished, 

To  the  sea  where  the  staunch  whalers  go. 
We  found  there  broad  beaches  of  ruby 

And  mountains  with  placers  and  leads, 
But  all  save  the  sky  was  pre-empted 

By  salt-water  sailors  and  Swedes. 

Then  we  climbed  the  cold  creeks  near  a  mission 

That  is  run  by  the  agents  of  God, 
Who  trade  Bibles  and  prayer-books  to  heathen 

For  ivory,  sealskins  and  cod. 
At  last  we  were  sure  we  had  struck  it, 

But  alas!  for  our  hope  of  reward, — 
The  landscape  from  sea-beach  to  sky-line 

Was  staked  in  the  name  of  the  Lord! 

We're  too  slow  for  the  new  breed  of  miners, 

Embracing  all  classes  of  men, 
Who  locate  by  power  of  attorney 

And  prospect  their  claims  with  a  pen, — 
Who  do  all  of  their  fine  work  through  agents 

And  loaf  around  town  with  the  sports, 
On  Intimate  terms  with  the  lawyers, 

On  similar  terms  with  the  courts. 


THE  LAMENT  OF  THE  Ol,D  SOUR  DOUGH      47 

We're  scared  to  submission  and  silence  « 

By  the  men  the  Government  sends 
To  force  us  to  keep  law  and  order, 

While  they  keep  claims  for  their  friends, 
And  collect  in  an  indirect  manner 

An  exceedingly  burdensome  tax, 
Assumed  for  a  time  by  the  traders 

And  then  transferred  to  our  backs. 

We  had  some  hard  knocks  on  the  Klondike 

From  the  Cub-lion's  unpadded  paws, 
And  suffered  some  shocks  from  high  license 

And  other  immutable  laws; 
But  they  robbed  us  by  regular  schedule, 

So  we  knew  just  what  to  expect, 
While  at  Nome  we're  scheduled  to  struggle 

Until  we're  financially  wrecked. 

I'm  sick  of  the  scream  of  the  Eagle 

And  laws  of  dishonest  design, 
And  I'm  going  in  quest  of  a  country 

Where  a  miner  can  locate  a  mine; 
So  when  I  have  rustled  an  outfit 

These  places  will  know  me  no  more, 
For  I'll  try  my  luck  with  the  Russians 

On  the  bleak  Siberian  shore. 

NOME,  April  15,  1900. 


THE  GOLDSMITH  OF  NOME 

I 

I  am  resting  by  my  anvil, 

And  my  forge  is  growing  cold; 
I  have*  ceased  my  age-long  labors, 

I  have  beaten  out  my  gold; 
I  have  scattered  wide  my  treasures 

On  the  superficial  sands, 
Where  they  lie  unlocked  and  waiting 

For  the  work  of  human  hands. 

Where  my  far-spread  barren  beaches 

Lay  untrod  through  countless  years, 
I  can  see  the  meager  camp-fires 

Of  the  hardy  pioneers 
Who  have  learned  anew  my  secret 

From  the  unsecretive  sands, 
And  have  sent  my  golden  message 

To  the  workers  in  all  lands. 


THE  GOLDSMITH    OF   NOME  49 

Gazing  southward  through  the  valleys 

Where  the  ice-chained  rivers  sleep 
'Neath  their  wide-flung  ghostly  mantles 

And  the  Arctic  nightwinds  sweep, 
I  see  men  of  dauntless  spirit, — 

Men  whose  brave  hearts  never  quail, — 
Struggling  northward  o'er  wild  barrens, 

Breaking  for  the  world  a  trail. 

Looking  out  across  the  waters 

Stretching  sunward  to  the  Sound, 
I  can  see  the  sons  of  labor 

Boarding  vessels  hitherbound; 
I  can  hear  the  great  crowds  cheering 

On  the  fast-receding  piers, 
Where  sad  mothers  clasp  their  children 

And  gaze  seaward  through  their  tears. 

I  can  see  my  people  coming, 

Sailing  over  many  seas; 
I  can  see  the  white  sails  swelling 

As  they  catch  the  southern  breeze; 
I  can  see  the  black  smoke  trailing 

From  the  sloping  steamer-stacks, 
Throwing  swiftly-circling  shadows 

Over  foamy,  swirling  tracks. 


50  THE  GOLDSMITH    OF  NOME 

From  the  swarming,  stifling  cities, 

Where  wan  children  gasp  for  breath; 
Prom  the  shadeless,  unploughed  prairies, 

Where  grim  cyclones  scatter  death; 
From  the  old  world's  worked-out  placer 

And  the  rock-choked  mountain  gorge, 
They  are  coming  by  the  thousands 

For  the  product  of  my  forge. 

II 
Here  I  wrought  throughout  the  ages, 

By  the  silent,  tideless  sea, 
Beating  out  my  golden  ingots 

For  the  empire  yet  to  be, — 
Watched  the  mighty  strife  of  Nature, 

Heard  the  glacial  millstones  grind, 
Marked  the  rise  and  fall  of  nations, 

Timed  the  progress  of  mankind. 

While  the  seven-hued  Arctic  lightning 

Faintly  flashes  through  the  night, 
Tinting  ail  the  ghostly  landscape 

With  its  soft,  elusive  light, 
I  am  dreaming  of  the  glory 

Of  the  prehistoric  race 
Which  inhabited  these  valleys 

When  the  first  stampede  took  place. 


THE  GOLDSMITH    OF   NOME  51 


When  I  entered  on  my  labors 

Stately  palmtrees  weirdly  threw 
Slender  shadows  in  the  moonlight, 

Where  the  sea  slept  warm  and  blue; 
In  the  dark  primeval  forest, 

Dank  beneath  a  tropic  sun, 
Roamed  wild  beasts  of  form  colossal, 

Greater  than  the  mastodon. 

Birds  of  brilliant  sun-lit  plumage 

Caroled  in  the  fronded  trees, 
And  their  songs  were  wafted  seaward 

On  the  balmy  summer  breeze; 
Fragrant  flowers  exhaled  their  odors, 

And  the  distant  hazy  hills 
Lulled  the  fruitful  vales  and  uplands 

With  the  music  of  their  rills. 

From  the  plain  swept  wooded  mountains 

So  immeasurably  high 
That  their  gleaming,  snowy  summits 

Pierced  the  opalescent  sky, 
While  the  sun  sent  shafts  of  amber 

To  adorn  their  clinging  clouds, 
And  the  moon  as  came  the  night-tide 

Veiled  their  forms  in  silver  shrouds. 


52  THE  GOLDSMITH    OF    NOME 

Women  framed  in  perfect  beauty, 

Greatest  gift  that  God  had  given, 
Reared  to  manhood  happy  children, 

Taught  them  truth  derived  from  heaven; 
Men  of  elemental  wisdom, 

Giants  of  that  elder  time, 
Made  the  land  an  earthly  Eden, 

Free  from  poverty  and  crime. 

Ill 

From  beyond  the  distant  mountains, 

Where  the  day  pursues  the  dawn, 
Came  strange  men  of  pallid  visage, 

Active  brain  and  feeble  brawn, 
Who  brought  all  their  wiles  and  vices, 

Leaving  truth  and  virtue  home, 
And  at  once  took  up  the  ourden 

Of  good  government  for  Nome. 

They  brought  all  the  arts  and  customs  • 

Of  the  countries  whence  they  came, 
All  their  culture  and  refinement, 

All  their  wickedness  and  shame, 
And  they  taught  my  simple  people 

All  their  subtlety  of  mind 
And  the  luxury  of  living 

On  the  labor  of  their  kind. 


THE  GOLDSMITH    OF   NOME  53 


They  unearthed  my  hidden  treasures, 

Filled  their  coffers  full  of  gold, 
Trafficked  in  the  market  places 

Where  their  fellowmen  were  sold, 
Made  of  woman's  soul  and  virtue 

The  cheap  plaything  of  an  hour, 
Gave  the  rights  of  man  to  Mammon, 

Bought  their  way  to  place  and  power. 

When  God  saw  the  selfish  uses 

To  which  men  had  put  His  gold, 

Black  His  brow  became  with  anger 

And  His  heart  grew  stern  and  cold, 

And  He  hurled  His  bolts  of  thunder 
From  the  battle~ments  of  heaven 

Till  the  sun  went  out  in  darkness 
'   And  remotest  space  was  riven. 

Then  came  on  that  awful  travail 

Which  made  Mother  Nature  groan, 
Shook  the  stars  from  out  the  heavens, 

Threw  the  Devil  from  his  throne, 
Swung  the  planets  from  their  orbits 

Till  they  aimless  swept  and  whirled, 
Turned  the  Tropics  to  the  Arctics, 

And  repolarized  the  world. 


54  THE  GOLDSMITH    OF   NOME 

Through  the  frigid,  age-long  winter 

Here  in  loneliness  I  dwelt 
In  my  breezy  glacial  cavern, 

Waiting  for  the  ice  to  melt, 
Till  at  last  I  caught  a  vision, 

Through  the  sun-transfigured  rime, 
Of  my  vales  once  more  aslumber 

'Neath  the  haze  of  summertime. 

IV 

Then  I  watched  that  wondrous  waking, 

Nineteen  hundred  years  ago, 
When  the  great  searchlights  of  Heaven 

Set  the  universe  aglow, 
Throwing  rays  of  hope  and  comfort 

Through  the  darkness  of  despair 
Hanging  o'er  the  heavy  laden 

And  the  weary  everywhere. 

All  night  long  the  earth  lay  sleeping 

'Neath  a  pale,  mysterious  light 
Beaming  from  the  throne  of  Heaven, 

Where  God's  lamps  were  burning  bright; 
Choirs  seraphic  made  sweet  music, 

Faintly  heard  through  gates  ajar; — 
In  the  East  above  the  morning 

Shone  a  new  irradiant  Star. 


THE  GOLDSMITH    OF   NOME  55 

Jesus  came  and  taught  His  lessons, 

Walked  the  earth  a  little  space, 
Lighted  all  the  ways  of  sorrow 

With  the  glory  of  His  face, 
Planted  hope  in  hopeless  bosoms 

As  he  went  from  door  to  door, 
Wept  and  fainted  by  the  wayside 

'Neath  the  burdens  of  the  poor. 

He  rebuked  the  righteous  rascals 

Who  stood  in  the  street  to  pray, 
Scourged  the  brokers  from  God's  temple, 

Drove  the  hypocrites  away, 
Lifted  up  forsaken  women, 

Cheered  the  lonely  and  distressed, 
Folded  hungry  little  children 

Gently  to  His  loving  breast. 

Then  the  money-changers  dragged  Him 

Like  a  drunkard  through  the  street, 
Thrust  sharp  thorns  in  His  pale  forehead, 

Pierced  with  nails  His  bleeding  feet, 
Stretched  Him  on  the  tree  of  torture, 

And  His  quivering  muscles  tore, 
As  upon  the  cross  of  labor  V^ 

They  now  crucify  the  poor. 


56  THE  GOLDSMITH    OF   NOME 

As  His  Spirit  sped  to  Heaven, 

Clothed  in  raiment  white  as  snow, 
From  afar  I  heard  His  promise 

To  all  workers  here  below: 
"Watch  and  labor  in  my  vineyard, 

Bear  the  burden  and  the  pain; 
I  am  going  to  my  Father, 

But  I'll  come  to  you  again." 

V 

Then  a  great  awaking  pity 

Seized  upon  my  swelling  breast, 
And  my  heart  was  filled  with  yearning 

For  the  wretched  and  oppressed; 
As  a  father  loves  to  labor 

For  the  children  of  his  bone, 
I  have  wrought  here  for  my  people, 

In  the  silence  and  alone. 

I  have  watched  them  sadly  toiling 

Through  the  centuries  as  slaves, 
Never  laying  down  their  burdens 

Till  they  dropped  them  at  their  graves, 
And  while  watching  I've  been  working 

For  the  workers  in  all  lands, 
For  the  millions  bom  to  labor, 

Their  sole  heritage  their  hands. 


THE  GOLDSMITH    OF   NOME  57 

Not  as  wrought  the  other  Goldsmiths, 

Jealous  of  their  hoarded  wealth, 
Who  in  darkness  through  the  ages 

Wrought  in  secret,  and  by  stealth 
Hid  it  in  the  heart  of  mountains 

From  the  primal  stratum  hurled, 
Or  beneath  the  slag  and  cinders 

In  the  basement  of  the  world. 

They  wrought  for  the  thrifty  masters, 

For  the  men  of  fertile  brain, 
Who  grow  rich  through  toil  of  others, 

Thriving  on  their  brothers'  pain, — 
Who  by.  traffic  with  earth's  rulers 

Gain  control  of  Nature's  sod, 
Arrogating  as  their  birthright 

A  co-partnership  with  God. 


Come  and  take  my  golden  treasures 

From  the  shining,  yielding  sands; 
They  shall  be  the  untithed  wages 

Of  your  free,  unfettered  hands. 
If  the  men  who  prey  on  labor 

Try  to  grasp  the  gold  you  glean, 
I  will  call  the  guardian  nation, 

And  she'll  scourge  them  from  the  scene. 


58  THE  GOLDSMITH    OF   NOME 

For  the  self-selected  savior 

Of  the  islands  of  the  sea 
Will  not  idly  stand  and  witness 

Such  a  blow  to  liberty; 
She  that  'round  the  lazy  heathen 

Her  protecting  arms  has  thrown 
Will  not  let  her  working  children 

Be  defrauded  of  their  own. 

NOME,  April  1,  1900. 


SINCE  THE  JUDGE  LEFT  HERE  FOR 


Like  one  just  waking  from  a  dream,  I  walked  abroad 

to-day 
And  rambled  to  the  green-roofed  town  that  sleeps 

across  the  bay; 
I  wandered  to  the  empty  house,  where  I  was  wont  to 

go 
And  always  found  a  welcome  and  a  solace  for  my 

woe,  — 
Where  erstwhile  on  cold  winter  nights  (so  long  and 

yet  so  short!) 
We  boys  from  all  the  island  round  did  frequently 

resort 
To  celebrate  the  passing  hours  by  playing  cards  and 

pool, 
While  our  kind  host  walked  back  and  forth  and  with 

his  famous  tool 
Extracted  corks  and  filled  us  up  on  beer  and  wine 

and  stuff 
Till    each    had  sworn  repeatedly  that  he  was  full 

enough. 


60  SINCE  THE  JUDGE  LEFT   HERE   FOR  NOME 

I  stood  despondent  at  the  door  and  faced  the  frozen 
foam 

That  from  my  frail  and  faltering  feet  reached  west- 
ward to  Cape  Nome, 

And  as  I  gazed  with  brimming  eyes  across  the  shin- 
ing sea, 

Some  sober  thoughts  and  sentiments  were  blown 
ashore  to  me. 

I  pictured  in  my  burning  brain  the  Judge  upon  the 
trail, 

Entombed  within  a  native  shack  or  struck  by  Arctic 
gale, 

And  then  that  old,  old  question  came  and  bothered 
me  again: 

"Are  those  who  go  or  those  who  stay  the  sport  of 
greatest  pain?" 

And  as  I  rubbed  my  throbbing  brow,  my  aching  heart 
repined: 

"The  ones  who  suffer  most  of  all  are  those  who  stay 
behind!" 

I'm  sure  as  westward  speeds  the  Judge  he  little  ap- 
prehends 

The  frightful  havoc  he  has  wrought  among  his  for- 
mer friends; 

If  he  could  hear  them  sigh  and  groan  and  see  them 
try  to  walk, 


SINCE  THE  JUDGE  IfEFT   HERE   FOR  NOME  6l 


I'm  sure  lie  never  would  again  produce  Ms  private 

stock 
Of  Runnymede  and  Pommery's  and  Mumm's  seduc- 

tive sees 
And  pour  the  .same  persistently  down  their  receptive 

necks. 
(The  thing  that  seems  most  strange  to  me  and  fills 

me  with  surprise 
Is  how  the  Judge's  private  stock  affects  a  fellow's 

eyes- 
Last  night  before  he  went  away  the  town  was  painted 

red, 
But  now  it  wears  a  ghastly  green  like  grave-grass  o'er 

the  dead.) 


I  wandered  through  the  hatless  hall  and  passed  from 
room  to  room, 

Last  night  alive  with  mirth  and  light,  to-day  adead 
with  gloom. 

I  went  into  the  parlor,  where  we  used  to  sit  around 

And  suffer  till  the  Judge  his  punch  did  perfectly  com- 
pound. 

The  bookcase  stood  with  vacant  shelves  and  doors  ex- 
tended wide, 

As  if  it  yearned,  for  vanished  friends  that  once  re- 
posed inside; 


62        SINCE  THE;  JUDGE  I,EFT  HERE  FOR  NOME 


Some  flowering  plants,  left  there  abloom  with  blos- 
soms chaste  and  rare, 

Already  drooped  their  slender  stems  for  want  of  wo- 
man's care, — 

The  sight  of  these  familiar  things  intensified  my 
grief 

So  that  I  sadly  turned  away  and  sought  outside  re- 
lief. 

I  blundered  with  uncertain  steps  into  a  closet  dark, 

Where  stood  the  shapes  of  spirits  flown,  all  glassy- 
eyed  and  stark, — 

A  hundred  bottles,  all  uncorked  (last  night  with  full- 
ness rife), 

Proclaiming  by  their  emptiness  the  emptiness  of  life. 

What  happened  then?  Was  it  a  dream?  What  was  1 
looking  at? 

What  was  it  that  on  yonder  shelf  so  calm  and  proud- 
ly sat? 

(It  was  a  large  cold  cruse  of  Mumm  the  Judge  forgot 
to  crack, — 

I  cracked  it  with  celerity,  my  lips  began  to  smack, 

And  to  my  careless  absent  friend  I  drank  this  truth- 
ful toast: 

"Of  all  the  drinks  I've  drunk  with  you  I  needed  this 
one  most!") 


SINCE  THE  JUDGE  I/EFT   HERE   FOR  NOME  63 


The  room  that  had  appeared  so  dark  was  brilliantly 

ablaze, — 
The  scene  now  shone  transplendent  with  the  light  of 

other  days; 

The  place  was  full  of  brawny  men  and  charming  wo- 
men too, — 
The  former  rather  numerous,  the  latter  somewhat 

few; 
I  heard  again  the  happy  jest,  the  reading  of  old 

rhymes, 
The  tales  of  hardships  long  endured,  the  stories  of 

old  times; 
I  heard  once  more  the  sweet  old  songs,  sung  with  a 

graceful  art 
That  made  us  think  of  childhood's  days  and  softened 

every  heart; 
And  then  I  sank  into  a  chair  and  wished  I  was  in 

Nome, 
And  while  I  wished  I  fell  asleep  and  dreamed  a  dream 

of  home. 

ST.  MICHAEL,  April  25,  1900. 


TO  THE  YUKON  ORDER  OF  PIONEERS 

In  Memory  of  Charles  S.  Lavante.     Died  at  Nome, 
Sept.  8,  1900 

Will  you  let  an  Arctic  Brother  lay  a  garland  on  the 

bier 
Where  sleeps  the  stark  and  pallid  form  of  a  Yukon 

Pioneer? 
Will  you  let  me  pay  a  tribute  to  the  one  you  mourn 

to-day, 
Whose  soul  is  speeding  homeward  from  its  worked- 

out  dump  of  clay? 

I  spent  a  winter  with  your  friend  among  the  Yukon 
hills, 

And  shared  with  him  his"  simple  joys  and  compli 
cated  ills; 

I  saw  him  tested  by  the  rule  which  few  at  Nome  ob- 
serve, 

That  we  should  do  to  other  men  what  we  ourselves 
deserve. 


TO  THE  YUKON  ORDER   OF  PIONEERS  65 

He  broke  the  rules  of  order  and  the  excise  ordi- 
nance 

By  selling  untaxed  liquor  at  the  old-time  Siwash 
dance; 

But  he  never  broke  the  maxim  of  the  mushers  on  the 
trail, 

That  it's  wrong  to  pass  a  comrade  when  you  see  he's 
apt  to  fail. 

I  see  his  face  a-beaming  as  he  stood  behind  the  bar 
And  listened   to  the   soothing  tones   of   Bates's   old 

guitar, 
In  the  good  old  days  at  Circle,  ere  the  courts  and 

lawyers  came 
To  rob  our  richest  sluices  in  a  way  that  is  a  shame. 

I  hear  again  his  gentle  voice  and  see  his  sad,  sweet 

smile, 
As  he  told  the  tales  of  hardship  on  the  creeks  at 

Forty  Mile,— 
How  you  wintered  on  bad  bacon  and  on  prehistoric 

beans, 
And  when  you  had  the  scurvy  steeped  the  spruce 

boughs  for  your  greens. 


66  TO  THE  YUKON  ORDER   OF  PIONEERS 

He  told  me  all  about  the  trails  that  climbed  up  in  the 

air, 
Meandered  o'er  the  mountain  peaks,  and  ended — God 

knows  where; 
He  told  me  of  the  hopeful  times  you  spent  at  Cas- 

siar, 
And  how  you  used  to  rock  out  gold  on  old  Bonanza 

Bar. 

He  told  me  how  the  traders  used  to  do  you  boys  up 

brown 
By  putting  up  the  prices  when  they  said  they'd  put 

them  down, 
And  all  about  that  awful  year  you  fellows  almost 

died 
Because  you  missed  "The  Racket"  and  were  forced  to 

stay  inside. 

His  latchstring  always  hung  outside,  and  you  never 

had  to  knock, 
For  he  had  no  knocker  at  his  door,  and  he  hadn't 

any  lock; 
When  you  asked  him  for  a  porterhouse  he  dished  up 

caribou, 
And  when  you  craved  a  whisky  straight  he  set  up 

"hootchinoo." 


TO  THE  YUKON  ORDER   OF  PIONEERS  67 

He  never  liked  the  Klondike,  and  he  had  no  faith  in 

Nome, 
And  since  he  came,  in  '86,  he  got  no  news  from 

home; 
But  he  never  lost  his  courage,  and  he  always  used  to 

say 
That  the  good  old  times  at  Forty  Mile  would  come 

again  to  stay. 

The  good  old  times  have  come  to  him,  but  not  at 
Forty  Mile, 

And  ne'er  again  at  Circle  will  you  see  his  happy 
smile; 

For  he's  gone  to  take  his  well-earned  rest  in  the  uni- 
versal way, 

And  I  know  he'll  find  God's  latchstring  a-hanging  out 
to-day. 

NOME,  Sept.  9,  1900. 


A  GREETING  TO  THE  SWEDES 
From  their  Fellow-sufferers  at  Topkuk 


We  learn  to-day  that  you've  received  a  message  from 

the  Sound 
Which  loosed  the  legal  ligatures  with  which  your 

claims  were  bound. 
We  send  our  warmest  greetings,  and  hope  that  you 

will  get 
The  dust  the  Boss  Receiver  is  a-hanging  onto  yet. 

We  had  our  little  laughs  last  year,  and  chuckled  at 
your  woes 

Caused  by  the  festive  jumpers  and  the  mournful  old 
Sour  Doughs; 

Jbut  we've  ceased  to  smile  and  laid  our  laughs  upon 
the  upper  shelves, 

For  we  have  learned  to  our  regret  just  how  it  is  our- 
selves. 


A  GREETING  TO  THE  SWEDES  69 

We  have  a  sub-receiver  here,  who's  working  out  our 
mine 

In  a  systematic  manner  which  makes  our  hearts  re- 
pine. 

He  brought  a  damned  expensive  plant,  shipped  in  his 
boss's  name, 

And  planted  it  against  our  "kick"  upon  our  richest 
claim. 

He  brought  a  gang  of  bosom  friends,  helped  up  here 

from  below, 

And  wouldn't  give  a  single  job  to  any  one  we  know, 
And  when  he  took  the  riffles  out  and  weighed  his 

shining  swag, 
He  wouldn't  let  us  see  the  scales  or  even  heft  the  bag. 

We  called  upon  the  lowest  court  and  all  the  powers 

that  be,— 
We  raised  our  mournful  cries  to  heaven  and  sent 

them  out  to  sea; 
We  cried  in  vain  for  earthly  help  and  almost  ceased 

to  fight, 
When  Nature  took  a  hand  and  gave  a  knock-out  blow 

for  right. 


70  A  GREETING  TO  THE  SWEDES 

Last  week  the  foam-crowned  Sea  King  came  and 
served  his  unbought  writ, 

And  Aleck's  high-priced  plant  now  lies  deep  down  be- 
neath the  spit. 

God  jumped  our  claim  and  drove  away  the  horde  of 
unpaid  hands, 

Who  wander  up  and  down  and  weep  along  our 
worked-out  sands. 

We  join  with  you  in  praise  to-day  and  raise  a  joyful 

shout 
In  honor  of  the   righteous  laws  that  knocked   the 

jumpers  out. 
Let's  celebrate  in  dry  champagne  the  powers  that 

wield  the  rod, — 
You  thank  the  U.  S.  Circuit  Court  while  we  giv? 

thanks  to  God! 

TOPKTTK,  Sept.  16,  1900. 


THE  POOR  SWEDE 


A  square-headed,  hard-working  Swede, 
Propelled  by  inordinate  greed, 
Mushed  around  in  the  cold 
Till  he  found  some  coarse  gold, 
And  then  came  to  town  at  full  speed. 

A  lawyer  with  galvanized  jaw, 
Whose  mode  of  procedure  was  raw, 
Sent  a  thief  out  to  jump 
The  rich  claim  of  the  chump 
And  stake  it  "according  to  law." 

The  Swede  is  now  stretched  on  the  rack 
And  trying  to  get  his  claim  back, 

While  the  Court  takes  its  time 

To  consider  the  crime 
Till  the  receiver  fills  up  his  long  sack. 

'      NOME,  Sept.  17,  1900. 


71 


STARVING  ONCE,  RECEIVING  NOW 


I 

A  lawyer  was  disbarred  back  home 
And  found  it  convenient  to  roam; 

He  floated  this  way 

In  a  cargo  of  hay 
And  inflicted  his  presence  on  Nome. 

He  waited  for  clients  to  rob 
Till  his  stomach  demanded  a  job; 
.     Then  he  haunted  the  street 

For  something  to  eat 
Till  he  looked  like  a  Klondike  slob. 


72 


STARVING  ONCE,   RECEIVING  NOW  73 


II 

A  miner  climbed  over  the  hills 
And  prospected  the  gulches  and  rills 

Till  he  discovered  enough 

Of  the  right  kind  of  stuff 
To  drive  away  poverty's  ills. 

He  staked  a  rich  claim  in  his  name 
And  proceeded  to  ground-sluice  the  same; 
Then  he  came  in  and  bragged 
Of  the  gold  he  had  bagged, — 
That's  why  he's  not  working  his  claim. 

Ill 

The  case  was  decided  next  day 

In  the  usual  ex  parte  way, 

And  the  miner  then  found 
He  was  robbed  of  his  ground 

And  couldn't  get  even  a  lay. 

The  lawyer  now  has  ample  means 
And  frequents  the  most  brilliant  scenes; 

He  eats  three  times  a  day 

At  the  Paree  Caffay,  *  ^ 
While  the  miner  eats  bacon  and  beans. 

NOMK,  Sept.  18, 1900. 


HOMEWARD  BOUND 

I  am  out  upon  the  ocean, 

Sailing  southward  to  the  Sound 
With  six  hundred  busted  brothers, 

Kicking  hard,  but  homeward  bound. 
There  are  sixty  in  the  staterooms 

And  some  eighty  souls  or  so 
Sleeping  on  the  floors  and  tables, 

While  the  rest  seek  sleep  below. 

Of  the  sixty  in  the  cabin 

Only  thirty  had  the  stuff, 
While  the  others  came  on  passes 

Or  some  other  sort  of  bluff. 
How  the  hundreds  in  the  steerage 

Got  the  gold  to  get  them  home 
Always  will  remain  the  greatest 

Of  the  mysteries  of  Nome. 

,v 
74 


HOMEWARD  BOUND  75 

There's  a  siren  from  Seattle 

Who  is  traveling  in  style, 
Basking  in  the  brilliant  sunshine 

Of  the  purser's  dazzling  smile. 
She  has  jumped  a  first-class  stateroom 

That  is  simply  out  of  sight, 
And  has  oranges  and  apples 

With  her  champagne  every  night. 

There's  a  widow  with  two  children 

Who  is  trying  to  get  home, 
Having  given  up  the  struggle 

When  her  husband  died  at  Nome. 
Both  her  kids  exhibit  cravings 

For  all  kinds  of  fruits  and  nuts, 
But  they  can't  get  'nough  of  either 

To  distend  their  little  guts. 

There's  a  smooth  absconding  lawyer, 

Wearing  diamonds  like  a  sport, 
Who  spends  all  his  lucid  moments 

Praising  Nome's  imported  Court. 
He  has  beefsteaks  in  his  stateroom, 

Purloined  by  the  pantryman, 
While  his  clients  in  the  steerage 

Eat  cold  corn-beef  from  a  can. 


76  HOMEWARD  BOUND 


There's  a  Topkuk  sub-receiver 

Who  is  smuggling  like  a  thief 
All  the  gold  the  gang  could  gobble 

For  their  late-transported  Chief. 
He  indulges  in  fresh  oysters, 

Fine  cigars  and  foreign  wines, 
While  the  man  who  first  staked  Topkuk 

Tells  us  how  they  robbed  his  mines. 

There  are  counts  galore  from  Paris 

And  a  few  of  them  from  Spain, 
Who  invaded  Nome  to  traffic; 

But  they'll  not  do  so  again, 
For  they  found  their  debts  so  heavy 

That  they  had  to  leave  them  there, 
While  their  unpaid  Dago  valets 

Had  to  come  out  on  the  Bear. 

Late  last  night  they  gave  a  banquet, 

And  imposed  some  heavy  fines 
To  defray  the  steward's  charges 

For  his  bummest  brands  of  wines. 
All  the  guests  stood  the  assessment 

Without  making  any  kick, 
But  as  soon  as  they  get  sober 

They'll  appreciate  the  trick. 


HOMEWARD   BOUND  77 

I  shall  not  recount  the  horrors 

And  the  terrors  of  the  trip, 
For  the  same  may  be  imagined 

By  all  those  who  know  the  ship; 
But  I'll  simply  say  in  closing 

That  the  most  distressing  fact 
That  has  come  to  my  attention 

Is  the  way  the  ladies  act 

LAT.  65,  54  N.,  LONG.  189, 18  W.,  Nov.  1, 1900. 


TO  THE  YUKON  SOUR  DOUGHS 

I've  done  just  as  you  told  me  that  night  I  read  to 

you 
My  simple  Yukon  verses  and  you  said,   "By  God! 

they're  true!" 

But  I  can't  report  much  progress  in  a  literary  way, 
For  the  folks  down  here  don't  hanker  for  the  things 

I  have  to  say. 

I  read  my  verses  to  some  men  officially  quite  high, 
Who  could  give  you  boys  up  there  relief  if  they 

would  only  try; 
But  I  couldn't  make  them  smile  or  weep  or  even  once 

relax, — 
Perhaps  they  don't  like  poetry  that's  based  on  solid 

facts. 


78 


TO  THE  YUKON  SOUR  DOUGHS  ?9 


I   read  them  to  the  statesmen   who   combined   and 

formed  a  trust 
To  monopolize  sluice-robbing  and  to  confiscate  your 

dust, 
And  shipped  to  Nome  last  summer  a  gang  of  hired 

hands 
To  drive  you  from  your  placers  and  to  gut  your 

golden  sands. 

I  held  them  with  my  glittering  eye  and  read  my  very 

best, 
Just  as  the  Ancient  Mariner  held  up  the  wedding 

guest; 
But  just  before  I  made  my  point  they  vanished  with 

§      the  "whips" 
To  reorganize  the  army  and  to  subsidize  some  ships. 

I  tried  to  get  my  verses  in  the  daily  picture-press, 
But  the  men  who  guard  its  columns  sent  them  back 

to  my  address, 
With   the   gentle   intimation,    "We've   no   room   for 

news  from  Nome; 
We're    too    busy    with    our    neighbors    to  consider 

crimes  at  home." 


80  TO  THB  YUKON  SOUR  DOUGHS 


Then  I  sent  them  to  the  censors  of  the  10-cent  mag- 
azines; 

But  they  wanted  stuff  from  China  or  the  unwhipped 
Philippines, 

Or  a  lot  of  pictures  showing  how  the  British  butcher 
Boers, — 

Not  a  word  about  the  pirates  who  infest  your  barren 
shores. 

So  I've  had  my  verses  printed,  and  I  send  them  up 

to  you, 
Who  for  years  have  borne  the  burden,  but  are  yet  as 

staunch  and  true 
As  when  first  you  blazed  the  pathway  to  the  white 

and  silent  land; 
And  I  know  that  when  you  read  them  you  will  feel 

and  understand. 

WASHINGTON,  D.  C.,  Feb.  1, 1901. 


